A Slow Pitch
In the dirt of the diamond, my son’s eyes
Burn below the rim of his red hat
And he pulls his hand back,
looks at the score yet again,
digs his small toe in as his chest rises.
From my place in the stands
Every muscle has become tense
And my heart is pounding in my chest
As he draws his arm back and then forward
Releasing his breath and the tiny spinning ball,
A wild pitch bouncing off the wire fence.
And I finally exhale, wonder if he knows
I am throwing with him and that was my wild pitch
because I forgot to breath when we released the ball
And I was trying to throw it slow.
And I should just let him throw the ball
Because I am not a good pitcher
Because how can I possibly throw with him
When he is a lefty and I am a right.
But all of me grows tense, as he has the ball yet again,
And then we are winding up again
Because I cannot let go
Because his dreams are now my dreams
Because I don’t know how to love him
Any other way. So I will wear his little hat and
Must remember to exhale when we release the ball.
And I can play with him for a few more years
So we wind up, and we pitch, and that fast ball down the middle,
It wasn’t even trying to be avoided,
And so I know he threw that one
Because he is ready for the fast ball
And I would prefer we pitch it slow,
Just for a little while longer.
Long enough for him to know I am out there with him.
Long enough for me to learn how to let a fast ball fly.
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